Chapter Six
La Basilique du Sacre-Coeur
Filmy white clouds scuttered across the bright blue sky; the slight breeze held the promise of winter. The girl shivered slightly, even through her tufted fur coat, and hoped her nose wasn't glowing Rudolph red.
"Allez!" called a voice. High ponytail swinging, the girl stepped carefully down the steep stone stairs. At the landing she paused, swishing her coat so it belled out around her.
Click! Click! Click!
"Excellente!" The man's long fingers roamed over the camera, expertly adjusting lens, aperture, shutter speed. He favored her with an encouraging smile. "Encore une fois, cherie. Ici—comme ça—"head high, expression proud—"Vous êtes une princesse, n'est-ce pas?"
The girl hesitated. "Um…oui?"
"Non, ma petite." Coming closer, he lifted her gloved fingers to his lips and said softly, "Une vrai princesse."
A true princess. He certainly made her feel that way, ordering their small entourage (dresser, makeup person, camera assistant, even the agency representative) to minister to her comfort, make sure she wasn't cold, or hungry, or itchy. It was only the second day of the shoot, but she already felt as though she could rely on him, could trust him to take care of her. It made sense, she guessed; after all, a happy model made for a quicker shoot, and an easier job for everyone. And yet…she was fairly new to the business, but experienced enough to know that most of the time, photographers—particularly the famous ones—treated models with no more consideration than mannequins.
Besides, there was something in his dark eyes when he looked at her—a kind of focus, or connection, as though he recognized her. It gave her the confidence to toss her head back and glide down the stairs, fashion royalty to her very toes.
Some time later, he called out, "Finis!" Various assistants scurried to take down the lighting equipment and pack up the tripod. The dresser quickly stripped the fur coat from the girl's shoulders, replacing it with a rather weatherbeaten trench.
She had turned to climb aboard the nondescript black van that served as both transport and dressing room when someone spun her around. "Excellent work, ma petite. The clothes…the sky…Sacre-Coeur—ce sera magnifique, eh?" He embraced her, quickly, and bent to kiss her cheeks. Perhaps his aim was off, or perhaps she turned her head, but the second kiss caught the corner of her mouth.
He looked as surprised as she felt, and then laughed, running a thumb along her lower lip. "Come, ma chère Madeleine…tonight, we celebrate! Paris awaits its newest star!"
Before she could think twice, she found herself in the leather seat of his Alfa Romeo. Georges pulled her to him, and his mouth covered hers again. As they sped through the tiny streets of Montmartre, she rolled down the window; a cool stream of air rushed by, carrying the tiny prickle of her hesitation along with it.
-0-0-0-
Le Jardin des Tuileries
David scanned the wide plaza at the park's entrance. No sign of Maddie among the crowd lining the octagonal pool at its center—mostly children, screaming with delight as the sailboats they pushed caught the breeze.
He continued down the broad allée, looking to the left and right. She could be anywhere by now; the shoot had taken over an hour. He had to hand it to Georges Meclan, though—he knew just what to say, when to coax, when to demand, to get what he wanted out of his models. Hell, he had even managed to convince David to pose with the girls, wearing a silk leopard-print robe…which David was fairly sure he was going to regret, especially if the photo made it back to L.A.
Yes, Georges had charm, that was for sure. But what was the deal between him and Maddie? They were obviously already acquainted. Maddie had offered to go to the agency early that morning to confirm the models' assignment and fees; perhaps she had met him there. The bigger mystery was why she had given the photographer the deep-freeze treatment—David hadn't seen Arctic Hayes make an appearance in awhile.
There was only one way to find out, of course, and that was to find Maddie. In the distance, the afternoon sun bounced off the new glass-and-steel pyramid that formed the entrance to the Louvre…could she be wandering amongst the priceless paintings? If so, he'd never find her; he might as well head back to the hotel.
But it was a beautiful day, and he was thirsty. Ducking into the Café Very, he found an unoccupied table on the back patio. The Heineken came quickly, thank God, and was downed in short order. He was just considering another when he looked across to the playground, separated from the café by a narrow path.
Funny how certain things crossed borders and cultures, he thought. The scene could easily have been set in Brentwood or West Hollywood, instead of Paris: the throng of climbing, sliding, whirling children…the groups of well-dressed mothers, chatting and doling out snacks…the uniformed nannies dotted here and there, holding juice boxes or wiping chins.
And behind them, sitting on a stone bench like a too-vivid figure in the background of a painting: Maddie. A tiny pang hit his chest. She could so easily be mistaken for the mother of the miniature blonde with the corkscrew curls, twirling in front of the tulip beds.
"Not sure exactly what the rate of exchange is, but how 'bout a franc for your thoughts?" he asked, flipping a coin in his hand.
She startled, drawing herself back from whatever mental avenue she was wandering. "Oh—David—is the shoot over? How did you know—"
"Hey, I'm a state of the art machine—come fully equipped with MADAR."
"Too bad you don't come fully equipped with a decent joke," she responded, but he caught the hint of a twinkle in her eye.
They sat for awhile, enjoying the late-afternoon warmth and the laughter of children, until he felt like he could broach the topic. "So, Blondie, seemed like you weren't too fond of Georgie-boy back there. What's the matter—he try and show you his black-and-whites at the agency this morning?"
Maddie pushed her fingers through her hair. "I knew Monsieur Meclan—"her tone was not flattering—"a long time ago. I was just surprised to see him, that's all."
Clearly, that was not all. David was weighing the advisability of pressing the subject when their attention was caught by an overall-clad toddler, chasing a butterfly down the path as fast as his chubby legs would carry him. Maddie smiled. David looked on and then turned back to her, hoping she would offer up the rest of the story.
"David, he photographed a print campaign I did here many years ago. By the end of the project I had spent eight weeks in Montmartre and was very ready to go home—it wasn't as glamorous as you might think." She watched the little boy scurry past them again. The butterfly lit on the upper bowl of a fountain nearby; not to be denied, his pursuer clambered onto the tiled surround and stretched his little arms up.
"Well, Meclan sure seemed to have some very fond memories—"
"David!" Maddie leaped from the bench.
Splash!
David was on his feet and running before he even realized it, passing Maddie as she frantically searched for the child's mother. The fountain wasn't particularly deep, but the child was frightened by his impromptu ducking. He couldn't seem to find his footing, and had gone under twice by the time David waded in and scooped him out.
He sat down quickly with the boy on his lap, shaking water from one drenched pant leg to a chorus of coughs and wails.
"Poor thing—it's all right," Maddie soothed, getting down to the toddler's level. He stopped crying for the moment, and patted her nose. "Jolie," he pronounced.
"Oh! Monsieur! Merci—merci mille fois!" The boy was hoisted out of David's arms by a petite brunette. She settled him on her hip, murmuring, "Shhh, mon petit…shhhh, Nicolas…c'est Jeanette…je suis ici…"
David stood over the woman, doing his best to reign in a sudden, heart-pounding fury. "Lady, you should really be more careful," he growled. " There's all kinds of things that could happen—"
"David—"
"Maddie, she wasn't paying attention—"
"David, it was an accident, he's okay," Maddie interrupted.
"Oui, un accident," the girl agreed. She put one small hand on David's damp sleeve. "Oui, monsieur, je m'excuse, je suis desolée—"
David removed the hand and bit out, "Next time, try less gossip and more supervision!"
The girl's arms tightened around her charge and she took a step back, clearly miffed. "Oui. D'accord. Merci!" She hurried back in the direction of the playground while Nicolas waved at them over her shoulder.
"You did a good thing, Addison," Maddie said softly.
His instinct was to brush it off, make a joke-anything to fill the sudden hollow in his gut. But her quiet voice went on.
"It was an accident. It just happened so fast."
"Yes, it was….and it did."
The double meaning of their words was not lost on him. A stray curl blew across Maddie's face; he ached to smooth it away, to smooth away the grief in her glistening eyes.
They stayed long enough to see Nicolas fully recovered, chasing a little red ball under the now-watchful eye of his nanny. "So…finished for the day with the lingerie harem?" Maddie asked wryly as they turned to go.
David rubbed the back of his neck. "Not exactly. Apparently, there's a 'Tour de Slip' party tonight at some chichi club. Just a publicity thing—I'm supposed to make nice with the press hounds. Think I'm gonna have to change first, though." He cocked a wet elbow in Maddie's direction. "Yo, Blondie—you're coming with me, right?"
She rolled her eyes, but slipped her arm through his. "As if I have a choice."
TO BE CONTINUED
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